


Covet

by indicates



Series: High Tide [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Companions, Companions Questline, M/M, Pre-Slash, Sibling Incest, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-13
Updated: 2016-04-13
Packaged: 2018-06-02 00:08:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6542359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indicates/pseuds/indicates
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A stopped clock is right twice a day; in which Farkas is right about the elfling, and Vilkas is, once again, mildly annoyed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Covet

Vilkas knows he’s being watched - that strange, uncomfortable prickle in the back of his neck lets him know, but he ignores it deliberately. 

He does this - which is to say, he does absolutely nothing and ignores his observer - while he peels his armor off like a second skin, piling the heavy steel aside the bed, and though he tries to be quiet about it, it goes less smoothly than he’d have liked. And, although he turns his broad frame a little toward the wall as he shrugs his shirt off to exchange it for another, the room they share is small and the lighting isn’t so bad, and his one-man audience chimes in with a blunt “Oh.” 

Sighing, Vilkas casts him a worn look, rolling the clean white cotton of his still-balled-up shirt between his fingers. “It’s all right, Farkas. Don’t worry. Just a bruise,” though he can’t help the mild snort of laughter as his twin gets up and pads across the room, heavily plunking himself down beside him and leaning in to peer at his shoulder. He rolls it back to expose the inky expanse of his wound to the light, staring up at the ceiling with the edge of a smile pulling at his mouth; this exact thing is why he was in no rush to dress, as he knew - he always knows - that Farkas insists on making sure he’s fine, just the same. 

He also knows that he’d have done the same thing. That he _has_ done it, and that he will time and time again. 

“Hm,” says his twin as he straightens up again, and Vilkas laughs properly this time. 

“Are you a healer, now? Honestly.” 

“Well,” Farkas says by way of a comeback. 

Vilkas just shakes his head, smiling, as he leans in to bump Farkas’ shoulder with his own in an affectionate nudge. “Don’t go abandoning the sword for the alchemy table, now, hm? Tamriel couldn’t handle it.” The thought of Farkas concocting potions by trial and error was a terrifying one, and Vilkas comforts himself with the silent reminder that his twin would have no interest in such a thing. 

“Was it the whelp?” Farkas wants to know suddenly, grazing a couple of fingers over his brother’s shoulder and a ghost of one over the bruise on his chest, careful not to be abrupt in his movement. It isn’t easy; his coordination came smoothly when it came to swinging a sword, but to ask him to be gentle when it came to moving about was another prospect altogether and one that he had yet to master. “He’s nice. And strong, too. I like him.” 

This admission makes Vilkas bristle silently and Farkas lets his hand drop to his brother’s knee, the pad of his thumb tracing an idle back and forth pattern against the inside of it. He stares quietly at his twin’s identical shoulder, less observant as he is looking for a distraction, and he knows too that Vilkas has his eyes trained on the ceiling or the far wall, as he always does when he’s thinking, and by now Farkas knows better than to push him. So, like he always does, he sits close by and says nothing, and does nothing except to keep his hand precisely where it is, and his thumb doing what it’s doing, until finally, _finally_ Vilkas says something. 

“That’s not fair.” 

“What?”

“That,” Vilkas sighs, bouncing his knee twice beneath Farkas’ palm to indicate the _that_ of which he spoke, which earns an earnest grin and a shrug. This is, after all, how it always goes, and Vilkas scrubs a hand over his face. He wonders if his fond exasperation is obvious, and then decides that, if it is, it likely won’t offend his brother besides. He decides not to worry about it. 

Farkas lapses into thoughtful silence again as Vilkas tucks a stray bit of hair behind his brother's ear. He’s a man of few words, in general, and it’s been so long that his twin is no longer fazed by it. “Why don’t you like him?” He tilts his head a couple of degrees to one side, watching. 

It’s all he can do but to sigh again - Divines, he does an awful lot of that, doesn’t he? - and Vilkas shrugs helplessly. It’s hard to explain, since he doesn’t have much of a good reason for being so sharply disinterested in the new kid, and harder still to explain that _he_ doesn’t like that _Farkas_ likes him, because that makes barely a lick of sense. Rather than answering right away, he settles against the pillows, staring at the ceiling _as he always does_ and finally dredges up an answer, although, admittedly, he isn’t sure it’s a very good one. 

“I just… I don’t like that he came in here and walked right up to Kodlak, said he wanted to join the Companions. As if it’s so easy as saying you want to, and then,” Vilkas waves a hand curtly, “there you are. Everyone seemed to like him, as well. On top of all that, an elf with an axe is… peculiar,” and Farkas interrupts him here, although he doesn’t really mind.

“But he’s good with it. You even said so.” 

It’s not wrong and, in some small way, this annoys Vilkas even more than Kodlak being right. It isn’t that Farkas is so inept as to never be correct about anything, of course, and by now he should be used to his twin turning a light onto his stubbornness, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it. True to form, he does not. “I know,” he answers, because he does. “He is. But he still… He isn’t a warrior like you. He doesn’t have your strength.” 

“Yes,” Farkas smiles a little at the compliment, “but he’s an elf.”

“I _know_ that.” 

“So he won’t -” 

“I _know_ , Farkas,” he cuts his brother off gently because he’s unwilling to argue the matter, and it seems like everyone is out to tire him today. “But that’s the point. He won’t ever be as strong as you, or a Nord, because he’s an elf. And a wood elf, on top of that. He’s talented with his blade, that’s hardly the question, and I have no doubt that he’ll bring honor to the Companions…” 

Farkas blinks at him, candlelight yellowing his complexion and darkening his eyes as it flickers in them, and Vilkas briefly feels a pang of guilt for the way he’s being stared at. Hopeful. Waiting, expectant, for further explanation. Eventually Farkas gives up and whuffs with laughter into his twin’s shoulder - he _knows_ , like Kodlak does, and picks his head up off Vilkas shoulder with a wry little grin. 

“Then what’s the problem?” 

He opens his mouth once and shuts it again, puffs quietly through his nose in faint displeasure and then starts a silent sentence a second time. Finally, cornered and caught out, Vilkas is forced to abandon his post of righteous indignance. 

“... There isn’t one,” he sighs, dragging a hand over his face, and his twin grins at him again, boyish in his enthusiasm and gleeful at being right, about the opportunity to needle Vilkas into admitting it. 

“See,” Farkas chirps brightly, bumping his brother’s temple with the bridge of his nose in an affectionate nudge as he peels away to retire to his own bed. He settles right in the middle of it, broad and weather-beaten but genuine in everything about himself, and Vilkas gazes quietly upon him in the dimming light and is at once awed and envious. His sibling may be identical to the eyes - though they’ll both argue that if you suggest it - but he knows that his personality is built of protection and vengeance, thorny like the thistles scattered outside Whiterun… but Farkas? He’s a warrior at heart, but that’s what Vilkas has always liked so much about him, and the earnestness behind his actions even if it isn’t well-elaborated has always been something he admires. 

“What,” Farkas challenges him suddenly, narrowing his eyes, though he’s got that wry little half simile firmly in place. 

Appropriately chastised, Vilkas snorts a laugh of a “Go to bed,” and blows the candles out on the end table.

**Author's Note:**

> my apologies for so much name usage! the twins are so hard to differentiate in text, which, as it turns out, is a real pain. more wood elf next time!


End file.
